


If We Only Had The Time

by wittlenell



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Big angst, Canon Era, Epistolary, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multimedia, Post-Barricade, Reunion, There's a short film that goes with this, i'm sorry y'all, they're dead I promise lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:28:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23976613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wittlenell/pseuds/wittlenell
Summary: A musket went off in the distance, and he fell to the floor, instinctively taking cover. For a moment, he only trembled. Trembled, with his jaw clenched shut, as he fought back tears. This wasn't how it was meant to go- this wasn't at all how it was meant to go. But here he was, laying on the floor of the Musain after calling the order to retreat, with no one in sight. He wasn’t even sure if anyone had heard him. But here he was.They had been planning for so long. Even after Lamarque…
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42
Collections: Les Mis Big Bang: Quarantine Edition





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> content warnings for fic:  
> Discussion of wounds  
> Character death  
> Alcoholism
> 
> This is my Les Mis 2020 Big Bang project, partnered with E/thecandlesticksfromlesmis! In case you need something that ends a little more lighthearted, be sure to check out his short film adaptation, set in a modern AU! Embedded in the next chapter!

The door to the Musain was thrown open as Enjolras heaved his body over the threshold. He practically fell into the table, catching himself just before he crashed to the floor. With a heavy chest, he surveyed the room.

It had been ransacked. The bookcase had been thrown over, books littering the floor and pages getting lost amongst pages. Chairs were broken, tossed without care, wood splintering from impact. There were stains from spirits smashed against the wall, and from his position, he could see the post with all their plans that had been ripped off the wall. His heart dropped into his stomach before he let out a groan of pain, taking a moment to try and breathe.

They had shown up, the damned National Guard just showed up and it was only June 5th. _Someone_ had sold them out, they had been so careful, there was no way this was just a simple misstep, _someone-_

He clenched his fists, as his mind turned to static. He inhaled sharply forcing himself back into a standing position. Ripping through the room like a tornado with shaking hands to find the supplies hidden in the- 

In the- 

Where on earth had they been left? 

A musket went off in the distance, and he fell to the floor, instinctively taking cover. For a moment, he only trembled. Trembled, with his jaw clenched shut, as he fought back tears. This wasn't how it was meant to go- this wasn't at all how it was meant to go. But here he was, laying on the floor of the Musain after calling the order to retreat, with no one in sight. He wasn’t even sure if anyone had heard him. But here he was.

They had been planning for so long. Even after Lamarque…

“We can’t react so quickly.”

Enjolras, with fire in his belly, stopped mid-sentence and turned his eyes onto Grantaire. The cynic.

“Pardon?” He dared the man to speak.

“We can’t just build a barricade in the middle of town and assume we’ll make it out alive,” Grantaire spoke so casually it made Enjolras grind his teeth, “How many of you have ever touched a musket?”

“Grantaire-”

“I see two hands in the air-”

“Grantaire, I understand-”

“Now, tell me what makes you think that a team of schoolboys with only daddy’s money to their name is going to be able to upend the monarchy without even having fired their first round,” By now he was standing, arms crossed, “You’ve done a very good job outlining what the issues are, but so far? I haven’t heard one lick of a plan on how you’re going to survive it.”

He was right. Enjolras knew he was right, but he couldn’t help but get defensive. Had it been anyone else, had it been someone who was invested in this movement, had it been someone who wasn’t just here to play devil’s advocate, perhaps, he wouldn’t feel so sick to his stomach. He wouldn’t feel so… Stupid for not realizing earlier.

“So what, pray tell, do you think we should do?” He finally answered.

At this, Grantaire shrugged.

“You tell me.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Grantaire’s gaze was unwavering, challenging Enjolras to consider his plan very carefully. It was a gaze Enjolras could never get used to- could never not feel his stomach tighten and face flush under the scrutiny of those eyes. Try as he might, the cynic always found a way to break him, to make him think, to make him talk. 

So he did.

With heat creeping up his neck, he suddenly removed his cravat and balled it up in his fist.

“Feuilly will take groups into the countryside in the following days to get a feel for our guns. Combeferre and Courfeyrac will make sure the Musain is stocked with emergency supplies, so that if things go sideways we can reconvene here. Bahorel, Grantaire, and I will be setting up the barricade in increments, to make sure it’s stable and already reinforced by the time we say go.” 

“And when will that be?”

“The seventh.”

But they were young and naive.

The wind left Enjolras' lungs all at once as he jerked forward, clutching at his thigh.

"Fuck!"

With a shaking breath, he looked at his hand and watched as blood seeped between his fingers. His heart jumped into his throat, and he looked around once more with wide eyes. Ignoring the pain shooting into his hip, he tried to find _anything_ the guards hadn't swiped in their raid. But there was nothing- he found _nothing_ and his mind started to race.

_I'm going to die here, I'm going to die, I'm-_

"Stop," He ordered through gritted teeth, "Stop it right now."

He pushed himself off the floor and carefully, with bated breath, moved towards the table. If he was right, and he so often was, he'd find just what he was looking for. It wasn't the medical supplies they'd made sure to gather, but it was good enough.

He grabbed the whiskey from the table and relief washed over him as he found the bottle still half-full. Yet for a moment, only a moment, he hesitated.

It was Grantaire's. There was no doubt about it- with a painted handprint around the neck, only he could stomach this kind of stuff. In the Musain no less.

He smiled softly.

To think the man was so… smart, even while drinking practically every hour in the hour. For two years now, it had infuriated Enjolras to no end. Had you asked him even a week ago, Grantaire was a drunkard. A fool. A man who had no moral standing, who was kind hearted but could never fight for anything, including himself. 

Now… God, now Enjolras knew better. He knew the man had a heart of gold, a wit like no other, and was a pain in his ass for a good reason.

“How exactly do you have all of this?” Enjolras almost laughed. He trekked behind Grantaire, carrying boxes of ammunition into the abandoned building they were using as home base for the barricade. Just the prior evening, they had brought bandages and blankets, in case they had to camp out overnight.

“Leftovers,” It came out as a grunt.

“From what?” He raised an eyebrow, watching as the man pushed the box in his hands into a nook in the wall. He handed over his own, letting Grantaire work.

“My time,” Green eyes met blue, “You aren’t the first to come up with a plan to overthrow the monarch.”

Enjolras sputtered, gaping at him.

“You?”

Grantaire grinned that toothy grin, as cocky as ever.

“Me.”

“There’s no way,” A chuckle of disbelief bubbled out of his chest, “You-”

“Don’t believe in anything, I know,” Grantaire finished for him. He made his way over to a crate nearby, sitting down and gesturing for Enjolras to follow suit. He grabbed a bottle of spirits from seemingly nowhere, taking a swig like it was nothing.

Enjolras watched him for a moment. Slowly, he brought his body down to Grantaire’s level, almost as if he were cautious with this new information. It didn’t sound real-- Grantaire? A revolutionary? A _leader,_ in fact. It was so…

Of course he was.

He reached out, taking the bottle just as it was about to reach Grantaire’s lips again.

“Hey-”

“Tell me about it.”

“Oh, come on-”

“You have all these supplies, I’ve never even heard of this- I don’t understand. What happened?”

For a moment, he wasn’t sure Grantaire was going to speak. He was slumped against the wall with black curls falling into his face and eyes distant. With a slow hand, he brought it up to the scruff on his chin and scratched absently.

“Artists… aren’t trustworthy,” He finally spoke, “Hate the system all they want, but the moment an aristocrat commissions them for a self-portrait, they’re suddenly no better than the lot of them.

“I had it all laid out. I made deals when I could and stole the rest. Nothing I did back then was half-assed and I’m telling you, I’d bet every franc I’m worth that we were going to succeed. I was so… damn sure of it.

“But when one person finds out… So does another, and another. And before you know it, the King has _bought_ all of your allies.”

“How were you not tried for treason?” Enjolras cut in.

“I wasn’t worth their energy, they didn’t think I was a threat to them. I was a schoolboy running the streets with all the other boys who liked to paint and drink. They figured they could just… pay us off.”

“And that worked,” Enjolras solemnly muttered, recognition hitting his eyes.

“I mean, for the rest of them,” Grantaire sneered, “I’ve never accepted a single franc from those dickheads.” He shook his head, pushing the curls away from his eyes, “No, all I got was kicked out. My family didn’t want me around if I was going to _tarnish their good name._ ”

“That’s-”

“Familiar?”

Enjolras went quiet. He hadn’t been kicked out, he _chose_ to leave. From the second he could, he was gone, using the money he’d saved up all his life to find ways to survive until ultimately staying with Combeferre. Before he could find a proper response, Grantaire was already speaking again.

“I moved in with Boss and Joly after it all happened,” He huffed out a laugh, “They’ve been… quite accommodating, considering their roommate has become such a depressed drunkard.” 

“Why’d you join?” Enjolras blurted.

A smile barely touched Grantaire’s lips.

“Isn’t that the question? Why _did_ I join _les amis_?”

“I-I understand your political stance, I understand the fire, but I don’t understand how you could be so defeated that you become… this, husk of a man, only to join another revolutionary group?”

“You,” Easy. Simple. His smile curled and something deeper hit his eyes.

“Me?” His breath caught.

“What else? A leader with fire in his eyes, with war drums banging in his chest, with _everything_ to lose… You’re so sure of yourself, Enjolras. It’s as if… Never once have you considered that you could end up like me,” He leaned forward, “You, _mon ange,_ could make a sinner repent.”

A yell tore out of Enjolras’ chest before quickly getting swallowed by his heavy breathing. He clenched his fist so hard, his nails dug into his skin as he poured the whiskey over his leg.

It pulsed and burned, spitting blood and bringing tears to his eyes. Slamming his fist on the table, he choked on the air and felt his hands shake. He shut his eyes tightly, gathering all of his strength before ripping the flag that was tied around his waist and wrapping it snugly around the wound. 

His body slumped, breathing fully at last, and let his head fall forward. He could feel sweat dripping down his face in bullets; his shirt, now damp, clinging to his chest and his hair… sticking to his forehead and neck.

He ran his hands over his face, smudging his own blood against his cheek as it went up into his hair. His brow furrowed when he found it was loose. His hair was never loose, it was always up--

“ _Grantaire!_ ”

Grantaire dropped hard and fast, falling backwards off of the barricade. He crashed into a couple of other students, a gift from God they would realize moments later. He clutched his bicep, writhing in pain as he clenched his jaw to avoid crying out as much as possible.

Before he had time to register it, Enjolras was moving. He was moving so fast, he practically tripped over himself in the rush, and came tumbling to his knees beside the man. 

“You’re okay,” He heard himself saying, saw as his hands reached out and buried themselves in the mass of black curls on the ground, moving Grantaire’s head aside to see if he had hit it on the way down.

“You’re hurt,” The cynic grunted.

“This isn’t about me,” Enjolras nearly snapped. He hadn’t even noticed the cut above his eyebrow, slowly trickling down his face, and he didn’t care. He pulled the maroon ribbon from his ponytail, letting blond waves come crashing down as he went to work, tightly wrapping it around the bullet hole in Grantaire’s arm.

Suddenly, there was something being pressed to his cut.

Enjolras turned his eyes onto Grantaire’s face with a confused blink. The man was… pressing a square of cloth to the wound with his opposite hand, stopping blood flow.

“If I’m not dying, you sure as hell aren’t dying either,” His focus was directed entirely into this one, simple action.

“It’s just a cut, it’s not-”

“Shut up.”

So he did. 

He shut up for the first time in his life, letting the man before him take care of him and when Grantaire’s hands didn’t stop moving, he realized for the first time that he had more cuts and bruises than he registered in the heat of battle. Small things, but bloodied all the same, and while he normally would’ve protested, arguing that the supplies should be saved for more important things, he couldn’t help but relax into the feeling of the rough hand on his face. 

“ _Mon ange,”_ Grantaire chuckled, deep in his chest. He buried his hand in Enjolras’ blond mane, pulling him in close to press their foreheads together, causing his breath to hitch.

Wrapped entirely in the idea of _Grantaire,_ he almost forgot where he was.

Almost.

“Canons!” A voice yelled from the top of the barricade.

Just like that, the touch was gone and it nearly made Enjolras dizzy. He scrambled to his feet, pushing off of Grantaire’s shoulder to boost himself and run towards the call.

There they were, just as Courfeyrac cried, canons being rolled in by the National Guard. His heart dropped.

“You’ve got to be…” He breathed out.

“Are you ready to back down?” One of them called.

Enjolras hoisted himself atop the barricade, planting himself there. He opened his mouth, ready to respond, ready to say anything, ready to _fight._ But no sound came out. His lungs froze and he stopped, looking like a statue in his spot.

“ _Vive la Republique!_ ” Another student called.

It happened all at once.

Gunfire, a sharp pain in Enjolras’ thigh, canons being loaded and aimed. He called as loud as he could for the students to _draw back,_ pushing anybody he could find out of the area. Canons went off, soldiers came running at the barricade as it lost stability, and amidst all the movement and noise, he looked up and found Grantaire. Ripping a bayonet from a soldier’s hands, fighting back with all of his spirit.

“Get out!” Enjolras heard himself call before he, himself, was shoved into an alleyway, forced to retreat to the Musain.

He didn’t know how long he had been staring at his leg. He didn’t know how long he had been in the Musain. He didn’t know how long it had been since the shooting stopped. All he knew was his lungs hurt, his heart ached, and, judging by the deafening silence in his ears, he would _not_ be seeing the amis again. 

Slowly, with heavy limbs, he grabbed for a ripped paper across the table. He shut his eyes, taking in a deep breath before pushing himself to his feet, stumbling to a cabinet that still held Combeferre’s quill and ink. A sense of relief flooded through him and he let his legs crumble beneath him, ending up on the floor where he began to pen a letter.

_To my brothers and sisters,_

_Whoever lives to read this, I thank you endlessly. I thank you for believing in our cause. For believing that the people deserve so much more than this. For believing in me, as your leader. You gave me the respect I don’t deserve. You made my visions a reality. I will miss seeing your faces in the Musain every week, my heart aches to think the barricade was our last time together. Nothing I could write here could express the gratitude and respect I have for each and every one of you who joined us. Today and everyday._

_Whoever does not live to read this, I look forward to shaking your hand. I look forward to the time we will spend together, seeing how the movement will continue forward without us. We knew the risks, but I cannot apologize enough for being the reason your life was cut so short. I would die again and again if it would give you your life back._

_Know that my dying breaths were spent in a prayer for each and every one of you._

_Your leader in red,_

_Enjolras_

He let out a quivering breath. He could see the edges of his vision fading and swallowing hard, he read his letter over and over to distract himself from the inevitable. After what felt like an eternity, he felt an itch in his fingers and before he could stop himself, he was reaching for another piece of paper close to him. 

_To the cynic,_

_You once told me that artists weren’t trustworthy, and I must say that, like most things we discuss, I disagree with you. Because I trusted you from the moment I saw you. I couldn’t figure out why no matter how hard I tried. You were a fool, an arse, a thorn in my side with nothing to offer. Except, I learned, your heart._

_You have the biggest heart I’ve ever seen, with a bite to match, and I am lucky I got to see through the drunken haze before we parted. I thank God above that we crossed paths when we did. For you, of all men, could turn this saint into a sinner if we only had the time._

_Your move,_

_Apollo_

He dropped the pen to the floor, writhing in pain for a few moments. Clenching his jaw, he fought off tears, refusing to admit, even to himself, that he was afraid to die alone. His body released the pain, allowing himself a breath to relax and breathe… When he heard footsteps. Approaching the Musain.

A faint smile touched his lips.

“Enjolras? Hey- Enjolras!”

It was Combeferre.

“Enjolras, hey, look at me,” Combeferre spoke quickly, sitting beside the blond as he pulled him halfway into his lap, “I’m here now, okay? I’m here, you’re-”

“Make sure Grantaire gets this,” Enjolras pressed the letter into Combeferre’s hand. He let himself drop his head to his friend’s shoulder, shutting his eyes, “Make sure he gets it and just… stay here. For a minute.”

Beneath him, he could feel Combeferre go rigid for a moment.

“I… yeah, okay,” A hand buried itself into Enjolras’ hair, “I will. I’ll do that…”

“I’m glad you came.”

“Me, too, Enj…” Combeferre gave him a squeeze, “I’m really glad I found you.”

Enjolras swallowed thickly, more of his weight releasing into Combeferre’s body.

“I’m sorry-”

“Stop it,” He was immediately shushed, “We knew. The entire time, we knew.”

The two sat there for a long time-- at least, it felt long to Enjolras. It may’ve only been a couple of minutes of laying on his lifelong best friend. _Literally,_ he would’ve laughed had he the energy. Instead, he smiled to himself at his silly, dark joke before his heart stuttered and his body jerked.

“Hey, I got you,” Combeferre tightened his hold on Enjolras, “I got you, I promise. I’m here until the very end.”

“Thank you…” Enjolras breathed out, “And the letter…”

Before he could continue any further, he fell into darkness. 

"Why don't you hand it over yourself?"

All at once he gasped awake.

He was sitting on the floor of the Musain, just as he was moments before. He looked around, finding the cafe… pristine. Untouched, other than the sunbeams coming through the open window. All the chaos from before simply vanished, leaving behind a room that was eagerly awaiting customers, with countertops clear and chairs in prime condition, no bottles tipped over or smatterings of Enjolras’ blood. He scanned the entire room, drinking in the scene before him. Finally, his eyes landed on the source of the question.

Grantaire.

There he was, sitting at the table, drinking his spirits. He grinned in Enjolras’ direction and gestured for the man to join him. 

So he did.


	2. If We Only Had The Time Shortfilm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of the barricade, a wounded Enjolras grapples with memories and feelings left unspoken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short film Content Warnings:
> 
> sounds of gunfire  
> graphic injury  
> death  
> a mention of suicidal ideation.
> 
> The short film adaptation of "If We Only Had The Time" for the Les Mis 2020 Big Bang!

[If We Only Had The Time](https://vimeo.com/415032086) from [E](https://vimeo.com/user32581839) on [Vimeo](https://vimeo.com).


End file.
